


Another World

by Kristinaraven99



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cross-Posted on Wattpad, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-14 16:25:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18951754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kristinaraven99/pseuds/Kristinaraven99
Summary: (Y/N) (L/N) was just another Fangirl who had been given the opportunity to go somewhere amazing: London.However, while she's there she somehow finds herself trapped inside of here favorite television series, Sherlock. What will happen when she can't find a way out? Will she find friends out of the characters she knows by heart...or even more?





	1. Chapter One: It was the Museum Stair's Fault

Ah.... Vacation. It was great... Especially when it's a Summer in London. The weather was unusually great, being a perfect a temperature of 20 °C (68 °F) with slightly cloudy skies. It was a miracle! Only a week in and I was having the greatest luck!

How did I get from my poor, tiny, and dirty house (more like a cottage) in the middle of nowhere to having a free vacation to London, all expenses paid? My gold digging Aunt Marie had just called off a wedding with her ex soon-to-be seventh husband and had been just lucky enough to get her honeymoon tickets out of it. She didn't like traveling very much and had gone to London three times already, so she gave them both to me. I luckily sold one of them online, seeing how I was friendless and a single child, and went on my grand adventure to the number one destination to visit on my bucket list.

I had already visited all the major, tourist destinations (Parliament Building, London Eye, Tower of London, etc.), but had yet to visit the number one thing on my list: The Sherlock Holmes Museum. It was the holy grail of Sherlockians, like myself. Being the brainless savant I am, I read most of them as a child. But when the BBC series came out, I fell in love. It was absolute heaven to see one of my favorite fictional characters from the Victorian age (or ever, really) come to life on the screen in the modern world. BBC had portrayed it perfectly, adding little references to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's originals and adding little tidbits of their own.

It was absolute perfection, and no one could ever convince me otherwise.

However, getting into the museum was hard and time-consuming. By ten o'clock, or thirty minutes after opening, the line is long enough to go to the next shop. Since I was steadily getting used to the city, I made a plan so I could get in without much of a hassle.

I'd decided to go this Monday morning. Most people were going to work or dreading going there, so people aren't likely to go to a museum on a Monday morning unless they're as crazy as I am. I checked my watch as I went into the tube. 8:45 am. Right on the dot. I checked my map again, memorizing the tracks I needed to take and which way to get from Bayswater to Baker Street.

Only three minutes later, I'm on a subway going to Edgeware Road. Only one stop to switch to another train (tram? I don't even know...) and I was there. Ten minutes, I was in Edgeware Road, waiting. Fifteen more and I was at Baker Street.

I breathed in the humid air as soon as I got out of the Tube. I was here. I was finally here. I checked my watch. 9:13 am. I even had enough time to grab a bite to eat really quick after I walk there and before they open. I almost jogged to the amazing destination and looked to see if it had opened early. No such luck, but it did look like they were getting ready. Like I had thought, no one was as crazy as I was and here for the museum. Unless they were disguising themselves...

Hungry, I went next door to get a scone and cup of coffee from Hudson's Old English Restaurant. It was expensive, but I had come prepared. I wanted the full experience. I grabbed my coffee to go and went outside, surprised to see a few people looking at the museum like they were wondering when it was opening. They didn't go near the entrance, though, so I stole the opportunity and was the first one to get in line. I nibbled on my scone, waiting.

Finally, after a couple of minutes that felt like ages, it was opened and they let me inside along with a newly married couple. I didn't mind them much as I eagerly took in as much as I could: it was mostly Victorian age, unsurprisingly, but had a few things that hinted to the BBC series. I went up the steep stairs, almost tripping twice, and studied the living room. It was untidy and had the signature seats in a Victorian style. At that moment, I almost squealed with delight. It was a dream come true. Although, this entire vacation was a dream, really. I'd have to thank Aunt Marie a million times over.

After taking so many pictures of everything I thought I'd fill up my phone storage, I was somewhat ready to let others enjoy this amazing thing that I have experienced. I took one final glance at the amazing museum set up and started down the stairs. Only after three steps, I tripped and tumbled down. The last thing I managed to think before hitting the bottom was: Curse these steep stairs. Then everything around me turned black.

\-------------------------------

"It she breathing?" I hear a familiar deep male voice above me say. Why is everything black? Did I go blind in my sleep? Wait, did my alarm clock not go off? I wanted to open my eyes, but they were bolted shut. My ears rang and my head throbbed with pain. What the hell?

"Yes, but she may have a concussion," I heard another man say above me, but he had a softer voice. Why do they sound so familiar?

"Should I call an ambulance, then?" The deep voice said. It sounded casual as if he saw a person lying on his floor in a concussion every week or so.

Before the soft voice answers, I manage to pry my eyes open. Light blinds me as I blink. When they adjust I see two extremely familiar faces hover above me. It couldn't be...no way... I bolted up as both of the men's heads move out of the way so I don't bump into one of them.

"Excuse me, miss," the soft voice said. I looked him up and down. Blonde-gray hair like a hedgehog's, dark brown eyes, short. What the hell? Why is Martin Freeman here? "Are you okay?"

"John, she has a grade three concussion. I don't think that means she's okay," the other man said. I looked at him. NO WAY! Curly dark brown hair, blue-green eyes, high cheekbones, and a million other things that could describe his appearance... Benedict Cumberbatch? Was this some sort of sick joke?

"I think I'm the doctor here," Martin said to Benedict.

"And I think I can speak for myself," I butted in suddenly. They both looked at me simultaneously, putting me on the spot. "I just have one question: Why on earth are you here?"

Martin turned to Benedict. "Call the ambulance."

"Excuse me, but you didn't answer me," I said to the Hollywood actors. "Why the hell are two Hollywood actors at the Sherlock Holmes museum?"

Martin Freeman looked at me calmly. "Calm down. I'm a doctor. You have a concussion, so you're probably very confused. I need you to answer a few of my questions until the ambulance gets here. Can you do that for me?" I nod slowly. Maybe I should just play along to see what happens. "Right. What's your name?"

"(Y/N) (L/N)." I replied 

"What do you remember doing before you just woke up now?"

"I was coming down the stairs from the Sherlock Holmes Museum," I said somewhat calmly.

"Erm, okay," Martin Freeman said, looking genuinely worried. "Where are you from?"

"(W/Y/F)," I answered simply. "I'm on vacation."

"How old are you?"

"26."

"Right. That's it, I suppose." Martin Freeman told me to stay put, got up, and went to talk to Benedict Cumberbatch. I was so confused. I fell down the stupid stairs, blacked out, and woke up to find two of the most amazing Hollywood actors posing as a doctor and...whatever Benedict was.

Twenty minutes later and I'm in an ambulance, traveling to a hospital, and still confused as ever.

\---------------------------------------

To shorten things up, it was a long night of questioning and tests. I was still as confused as ever, but I tried to do everything as patience. I'm pretty sure the nurses and doctor could see my annoyance. I was just glad it was over. Apparently, I only had a minor concussion and nothing serious. Thank god for that. I was free to go, but there was just one problem:

I had no idea where I was staying.

I was contemplating how I was going to pay for a hotel as I walked out of the hospital when I felt my phone buzz in my pocket. It's a miracle that it didn't break when I fell down the stairs. I fished it out of my jeans and saw that I had gotten a text from an unknown number:

Meet at 221B Baker St. I'd like to ask you a few questions.

-SH

What? No way. No way no way no way. There is absolutely no way that I'm here. In the world of freaking Sherlock Holmes! This is the stuff that you read in fanfiction, not stuff that happens in real life! No wonder Martin Freeman, oops, I mean John thought I had a major concussion. I was saying that his arrogant friend had a museum about him and that they were Hollywood actors. I wouldn't trust myself either.

I checked my pockets for anything else. Nope, just my phone. Crap. How was I supposed to get to Baker Street? I couldn't pay for a cab, I don't have a card for the tube anymore, and I was definitely not walking. I was stuck.

Suddenly, a black car with tinted windows pulled up to the curb. I didn't mind it much since I was more worried about my financial situation. That is, until the window rolled down and I heard a familiar voice:

"Are you Miss (Y/L/N)?" you turned towards the voice to see Mark Gatiss! Wait, no. It's Mycroft. That makes more sense... Wait, what? How did that make more sense? He was obviously annoyed with the fact that he was here talking to a goldfish. "Miss?"

"Uh, yeah. I'm Miss (Y/L/N), Mr. Holmes," I said, feeling the need to prove myself. Mycroft's eyebrows shot up, but he soon composed himself.

"Right, yes. I was asked to-"

"Take me to your brother, Sherlock, right?" You interrupted, hiding a smirk. Mycroft was interested in me now, that was for certain.

"Right..." The chauffeur of the car came and showed me to my seat across from Mycroft. The government official eyed me suspiciously during the entire ride, but I pretended to not notice anything. It was a long, silent ride.

In the middle of a traffic jam, I decided to break the silence. "So what's it like working as the British Government?"

Mr. Britsh Government looked at me funny. That was expected. "I'm not the British Government. I work in a minor position for it."

"Right..." you said unconvincingly. "Besides, you're probably not supposed to say almost anything about your job, are you?"

"You're correct," the intelligent man answered. "But I'd like to know how you seem to know all this."

"You wouldn't believe me even if I told you," I answered smartly. Damn. I'm a smart ass.

"Try me," Mycroft smiled pretentiously. The car had begun moving again.

An idea popped into my head. "Remember Moriarty and how he had convinced most people that he owned a line of code that could break into any system in the world? Well, believe it or not, I'm a master hacker and built off this idea, creating my own piece of code that could break into anything. Doesn't exist? I think not. I broke into the records of the British Government undetected and gorged in the information there. You had an interesting profile. Especially the fact that you locked your psychopathic sister in an insane asylum that supposedly doesn't even exist."

Mycroft's eyes widened and sweat dripped down his neck as I saw him go for his phone and I cracked up. Laughter spilled out of my mouth before I could stop it. I laughed so hard that I clutched my stomach. This went on until I composed myself somewhat. "Yeah, right. Me. A master hacker. Pfft. I'm better at lying than I thought!"

I caught a glimpse of Mycroft's reddened neck. "You could've just put yourself on Critical Threat level and gotten yourself killed."

"I kind of got that bit," I said with a smile. I still couldn't believe the fact that I was in a car going to Sherlock Holmes' actual house and riding in the car with Mycroft Holmes. It was insane. "But didn't you put your brother on Critical Threat level?"

And like that, the entire car went silent, but Mycroft's face was dark. It was his 'older brother knows best' look. Used many times against Sherlock and incompetent employees (well, the employee bit was a guess, but whatever.)

"You've reached your destination, sir," the previously silent Scottish chauffeur said.

I looked outside to see 221b next to Speedy's cafe in the flesh. Butterflies filled my stomach as I stared. I was startled when the door opened magically by the chauffeur.

"See ya later, Mike," I said casually to the government official. He appeared to be quite calm now.

"Goodbye, Miss (Y/LN)," he said. And just like that the door closed, the driver vanished into the driver's seat, and I was left on the street in front of the place of my dreams. I like Mycroft in real life. He was a really great brotherly figure.

I took a deep breath, walked up to the door, knocked slowly three times, and prepared for the unexpected.


	2. Being the Best Badass

I took a deep breath, walked up to the door, knocked slowly three times, and prepared for the unexpected. I heard footsteps come towards the door and it was opened by none other than Una Stubbs. Wait, no. Mrs. Hudson. I really need to get my head in the show.

"Hello, dearie!" the landlady exclaimed cheerfully. "You must be here for Sherlock, am I right?"

"Yes," I answered simply. I was slightly tempted to call her by her name, but I knew if I did she'd call the cops on me or something. 

"This way, then," she ushered me up the stairs warning me of Sherlock on the way up, but I already knew that he was clever, arrogant, cold, rude, and a million other things. I loved how in the show he could say almost anything without worrying if someone hated him. It was an admirable trait.

Mrs. Hudson opened the door when we got to the top and showed me in. The consulting detective himself was sitting on his chair in a trance. I looked around the flat, amazed. The museum was very different, of course. But that was mostly because they went for a Victorian look, not a modern one. Random clutter and papers scattered the floor and desk and I noted a knife and the skull on the mantle. The signature yellow smiley face with bullet holes decorated the wall. The entire room was a mess.

I loved every bit of it.

The curly haired man who sat in the chair didn't even notice that we had come in. He was in his Mind Palace figuring out some sort of puzzle, most likely. Mrs. Hudson cleared her throat. Sherlock didn't stir. 

"For goodness sake, Sherlock," she said. Sherlock looked over at her and then at me. "You have a client."

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson. But I can see quite well that we have a guest, not a client," the clever man said quickly. The landlady looked at him strangely and then at me. She then turned very happy.

"You have a guest?" she said excitedly. 

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said impatiently. I stayed as still as a churchmouse. "Now how about some tea for our guest?"

Mrs. Hudson nodded, muttered her signature line of not being a housekeeper, and left to make some tea. Sherlock motioned for me to sit on the couch and I did. It was comfier than it looked.

"You said you wanted to ask me some questions," I say, getting straight to the point.

"Yes," Sherlock said. "My name is-"

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes. but you go by Sherlock Holmes. You are a consulting detective who plays the violin when he needs to think and shoots the wall when you're bored. You're also a drug user, not an addict. You are the cleverest person in the world with the exception of your siblings, Moriarty, and Magnussen, that last of which are dead. You have one friend named John Watson," I said as quickly as Sherlock would if he were deducing someone. 

Sherlock had a shocked expression on his face. He cleared his throat. "Um, well, yes. That's, um, right." He paused and scrunched his eyebrows together. "You knew all of that how, exactly?"

"Ask me the questions that you wanted to ask me when I first got here first, then I can answer that. Maybe." I was acting way cooler than I felt. I was a badass. No, I was a badass who just impressed Sherlock Holmes. That's ten times badass-ier. 

"Alright," the consulting detective said slowly, finally composing himself somewhat. "When you woke up you asked what two Hollywood actors were doing in the place of your fall. Why did you ask that?"

"I was confused," I said simply. "I had just fallen down your steep stairwell and gotten a concussion and just woken up."

Green-blue eyes scanned my body for any sort of sign that showed that I was lying. Thankfully, I wasn't. I was confused and I had gotten a concussion. 

"Why were you lying in the bottom of the stairwell? And how did you fall down the stairs?"

"If I told you, you wouldn't believe me," I said, repeating what I had told his older brother.

"I highly doubt that," he said.

I smiled and had an idea float into my head. "I'd like to hear what you think I was doing."

Silence fell on the room like a blanket of snow. Sherlock looked me up and down, analyzing me like a specimen. I felt uncomfortable like I normally did when people stared at me, but I knew that he was just deducing the most probable situation based on my body language.

"I think you were trying to rob our apartment. John and I were gone on a case and Mrs. Hudson was gone at her sister's when we left so that would've given you the golden opportunity to sneak in, steal some valuables, and get out unseen and unheard. You're clever and have most likely done this for awhile, judging by your nimble fingers, so you most likely pickpocketed the door, making it seem like you were merely unlocking the door, and discarded the pickpocketing tools. You closed the door behind you inconspicuously and climbed up the stairs. Mrs. Hudson cleaned the floor before she left, however. You almost certainly slipped on the floor cleaner, if not, one of the stairs. I believe the first is more accurate since you are too smart to be careless when you rob a house. You fell down the stairs on your head and went unconscious. When you woke up, John and I were there and you had gotten a concussion."

I smiled at the clever man's deduction that would've made perfect sense were it true. "You're wrong."

Sherlock blinked. "What?"

"I said, you're wrong. I didn't try to rob you. Ask your brother or Lestrade for security footage of your street during that time period and look for me if you'd like to make sure. The truth is seemingly impossible, but also true." I paused for dramatic effect. "I'm from another world or dimension, I guess you could say. In my world, you and all of the other people you know are in a television series. It's quite good, actually. That's also how I know everything about you. I'm not even sure I exist in this world, either."

Sherlock paused. "You're not lying, obviously. So that means you're telling the truth or you're delusional."

"What if it's both?" I asked, smirking. This was fun.

Sherlock smiled slightly. "So that means I'm in a TV show right now?"

"Pretty much," I replied. 

"And I'm a side character? Or a main character?"

I laughed. "You're the main character. I mean, the show is even named after you." Sherlock smirked and I realized that I had inflated his already enormous ego. Not exactly the best thing in this world, but whatever. 

"You have nowhere to stay here then," Sherlock said confidently.

"Nope!" I said, popping the 'p'. 

"And you have no money on you for a hotel and you most likely don't exist in this world, so you can't access any money in your bank account."

I smiled. "I'm as broke as your wall."

The consulting detective rolled his eyes. "You can move into John's old room until you can figure out how to return to your world."

"I thought you'd never ask," I said and contained myself from jumping up and down squealing like a five-year-old. I stood up. "Two more questions: What year is it?"

An eyebrow went up. "2017."

I nodded. Season 4 has already passed. "Question number two: is Mrs. Hudson downstairs?"

"Yes. She'll be up in a bit with the-" At that moment the door opened, revealing a beaming Mrs. Hudson holding a tray with tea and biscuits. "Ah! Mrs. Hudson! Perfect timing. Could you get the keys for the flat upstairs for Ms. (Y/L/N)."

Mrs. Hudson's face turned to surprise. "Alright!" She sat the tray on the table quickly, almost dropping it. "I'll be right back with the keys."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock and I said at the same time. 

When Mrs. Hudson left, I turned to my new roommate. "By the way, just call me (Y/N). It'll be easier seeing that we're flatmates now."

Sherlock smiled genuinely, surprising me. "Alright, (Y/N)."


	3. The Wall Gets a Pounding. Again.

I took a deep breath, walked up to the door, knocked slowly three times, and prepared for the unexpected. I heard footsteps come towards the door and it was opened by none other than Una Stubbs. Wait, no. Mrs. Hudson. I really need to get my head in the show.

"Hello, dearie!" the landlady exclaimed cheerfully. "You must be here for Sherlock, am I right?"

"Yes," I answered simply. I was slightly tempted to call her by her name, but I knew if I did she'd call the cops on me or something. 

"This way, then," she ushered me up the stairs warning me of Sherlock on the way up, but I already knew that he was clever, arrogant, cold, rude, and a million other things. I loved how in the show he could say almost anything without worrying if someone hated him. It was an admirable trait.

Mrs. Hudson opened the door when we got to the top and showed me in. The consulting detective himself was sitting on his chair in a trance. I looked around the flat, amazed. The museum was very different, of course. But that was mostly because they went for a Victorian look, not a modern one. Random clutter and papers scattered the floor and desk and I noted a knife and the skull on the mantle. The signature yellow smiley face with bullet holes decorated the wall. The entire room was a mess.

I loved every bit of it.

The curly haired man who sat in the chair didn't even notice that we had come in. He was in his Mind Palace figuring out some sort of puzzle, most likely. Mrs. Hudson cleared her throat. Sherlock didn't stir. 

"For goodness sake, Sherlock," she said. Sherlock looked over at her and then at me. "You have a client."

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson. But I can see quite well that we have a guest, not a client," the clever man said quickly. The landlady looked at him strangely and then at me. She then turned very happy.

"You have a guest?" she said excitedly. 

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said impatiently. I stayed as still as a churchmouse. "Now how about some tea for our guest?"

Mrs. Hudson nodded, muttered her signature line of not being a housekeeper, and left to make some tea. Sherlock motioned for me to sit on the couch and I did. It was comfier than it looked.

"You said you wanted to ask me some questions," I say, getting straight to the point.

"Yes," Sherlock said. "My name is-"

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes. but you go by Sherlock Holmes. You are a consulting detective who plays the violin when he needs to think and shoots the wall when you're bored. You're also a drug user, not an addict. You are the cleverest person in the world with the exception of your siblings, Moriarty, and Magnussen, that last of which are dead. You have one friend named John Watson," I said as quickly as Sherlock would if he were deducing someone. 

Sherlock had a shocked expression on his face. He cleared his throat. "Um, well, yes. That's, um, right." He paused and scrunched his eyebrows together. "You knew all of that how, exactly?"

"Ask me the questions that you wanted to ask me when I first got here first, then I can answer that. Maybe." I was acting way cooler than I felt. I was a badass. No, I was a badass who just impressed Sherlock Holmes. That's ten times badass-ier. 

"Alright," the consulting detective said slowly, finally composing himself somewhat. "When you woke up you asked what two Hollywood actors were doing in the place of your fall. Why did you ask that?"

"I was confused," I said simply. "I had just fallen down your steep stairwell and gotten a concussion and just woken up."

Green-blue eyes scanned my body for any sort of sign that showed that I was lying. Thankfully, I wasn't. I was confused and I had gotten a concussion. 

"Why were you lying in the bottom of the stairwell? And how did you fall down the stairs?"

"If I told you, you wouldn't believe me," I said, repeating what I had told his older brother.

"I highly doubt that," he said.

I smiled and had an idea float into my head. "I'd like to hear what you think I was doing."

Silence fell on the room like a blanket of snow. Sherlock looked me up and down, analyzing me like a specimen. I felt uncomfortable like I normally did when people stared at me, but I knew that he was just deducing the most probable situation based on my body language.

"I think you were trying to rob our apartment. John and I were gone on a case and Mrs. Hudson was gone at her sister's when we left so that would've given you the golden opportunity to sneak in, steal some valuables, and get out unseen and unheard. You're clever and have most likely done this for awhile, judging by your nimble fingers, so you most likely pickpocketed the door, making it seem like you were merely unlocking the door, and discarded the pickpocketing tools. You closed the door behind you inconspicuously and climbed up the stairs. Mrs. Hudson cleaned the floor before she left, however. You almost certainly slipped on the floor cleaner, if not, one of the stairs. I believe the first is more accurate since you are too smart to be careless when you rob a house. You fell down the stairs on your head and went unconscious. When you woke up, John and I were there and you had gotten a concussion."

I smiled at the clever man's deduction that would've made perfect sense were it true. "You're wrong."

Sherlock blinked. "What?"

"I said, you're wrong. I didn't try to rob you. Ask your brother or Lestrade for security footage of your street during that time period and look for me if you'd like to make sure. The truth is seemingly impossible, but also true." I paused for dramatic effect. "I'm from another world or dimension, I guess you could say. In my world, you and all of the other people you know are in a television series. It's quite good, actually. That's also how I know everything about you. I'm not even sure I exist in this world, either."

Sherlock paused. "You're not lying, obviously. So that means you're telling the truth or you're delusional."

"What if it's both?" I asked, smirking. This was fun.

Sherlock smiled slightly. "So that means I'm in a TV show right now?"

"Pretty much," I replied. 

"And I'm a side character? Or a main character?"

I laughed. "You're the main character. I mean, the show is even named after you." Sherlock smirked and I realized that I had inflated his already enormous ego. Not exactly the best thing in this world, but whatever. 

"You have nowhere to stay here then," Sherlock said confidently.

"Nope!" I said, popping the 'p'. 

"And you have no money on you for a hotel and you most likely don't exist in this world, so you can't access any money in your bank account."

I smiled. "I'm as broke as your wall."

The consulting detective rolled his eyes. "You can move into John's old room until you can figure out how to return to your world."

"I thought you'd never ask," I said and contained myself from jumping up and down squealing like a five-year-old. I stood up. "Two more questions: What year is it?"

An eyebrow went up. "2017."

I nodded. Season 4 has already passed. "Question number two: is Mrs. Hudson downstairs?"

"Yes. She'll be up in a bit with the-" At that moment the door opened, revealing a beaming Mrs. Hudson holding a tray with tea and biscuits. "Ah! Mrs. Hudson! Perfect timing. Could you get the keys for the flat upstairs for Ms. (Y/L/N)."

Mrs. Hudson's face turned to surprise. "Alright!" She sat the tray on the table quickly, almost dropping it. "I'll be right back with the keys."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock and I said at the same time. 

When Mrs. Hudson left, I turned to my new roommate. "By the way, just call me (Y/N). It'll be easier seeing that we're flatmates now."

Sherlock smiled genuinely, surprising me. "Alright, (Y/N)."


	4. Sherlock is a Kindergartener Who Can Read

When I entered the flat again, I felt the warm blanket over my body. I hadn't realized just how cold I had gotten out in the rain. Note to self: don't let on to Sherlock that I'm cold. 

I tredged upstairs with the semi-damp folder full of confidentials and was surprised to see Sherlock no longer on the couch in his robe and pajamas, but instead up and pacing back and forth in his normal casual suit. 

"Imma take a stab and say you got a case?" I said to the echoing steps. 

Sherlock swerved towards me and smiled. "Thank god. There's a triple homicide down the way. John is with Rosie currently so he can't come. Willing to see a little brutality?"

"Willing? Please. It'd be fulfilling my one true wish of seeing a murder scene." 

If that sentence were said to anyone else, I would probably be on that someone's list of people to avoid. But since this was Sherlock, he smirked in delight and rushed to snatch his signature trench coat and blue scarf. And we were off!

Arriving at the scene, which was a car parking tower, I tagged along Sherlock like a puppy. A few people gave me looks, but most took a glance and rolled their eyes. Couldn't blame them. I'd be annoyed if someone did my job better than me for free too. 

We spotted Lestrade and politely interrupted his conversation with a woman who was the color of stone. As soon as his eyes set on Sherlock and me, he abandoned the woman and started walking with us.  

"Where's John?" He immediately asked after examining me first. 

"Babysitting. This is (Y/N) (Y/L/N)." Sherlock waved it off as if it didn't matter. "Now, what do you have for me?"

"I don't know if it's your style, but it has the rest of us stumped." 

Lestrade led us into a room with three bodies. All had skin the color of yellow parchment and blank white stares, but what immediately stood out about them was that their torso was cut open and gutted out. All of the organs were laid out next to each body, leaving them hollow. The scene reminded me of my ninth grade biology class when we dissected frogs. Bile threatened to creep up my throat. 

Sherlock appeared unfazed by the bodies and immediately walked up to the first one. I attempted to study his eyes and figure out what he was deducing, but failed miserably. He then moved onto the next body, and then the last. 

"(Y/N)," he said, not taking his eyes off the body. "What do you think happened?"

I blinked. He was asking me? The one who could never get through a science class without scraping by with barely a C? I tried to figure it out anyways, despite my ignorance. 

"Uh, well." I sniffed, and noticed the smell of the room that stung my nostrils. At first I thought it was the result of a germaphobe's cleaning job, but then I was brought back again to 9th grade biology.

Dissecting frogs...

"They're chock full of preservatives, aren't they?" I looked at Sherlock, who grinned with a glimmer of pride in his eyes. 

"Correct." He stood and turned to Lestrade. "These people were already dead before they were gutted. If you look at some colleges or possibly research facilities nearby I'm sure you'll find that they've reported missing a few new cadavers. Whoever stole them must've performed an internal organ dissection."

"So who did it then?" Lestrade asked, positively miffed. 

"Someone who must've had access to the cadavers in multiples sights. If you check the wrists on each, you'll find serial numbers. Run them through the system and you'll find the places. If one is a university and another is a facility or a different college, find a professor that has access to both. That's your culprit." 

The consulting detective started to walk out as I tagged along behind him. "You'll have to give me a harder one next time, Lestrade. How long was that? Five and a half minutes? I believe that's a new record." I rolled my eyes. God he could be such a know-it-all sometimes.

Sherlock and I left and were walking through the crime scene. Most people were packing up and rushing to-and-fro. We turned a corner and—

Smack. I was suddenly on the ground, groaning and grimacing. Sherlock wore an alarmed expression and look down for a moment before smirking and helping me up. 

"The hell just happened?" I stood again before noticing what—or rather who—I had ran into. Down on the ground was a younger looking man with sandy blonde hair. Painted on his face was a look of mortification. He scrambled up and glanced towards Sherlock and then looked at me, his face flushing. 

"Oh my god. I am so sorry." He gestured frantically. "Are you okay? I didn't knock you on your head, did I?"

I didn't quite know how to respond, so I simply nodded. 

"I did? Oh, dear lord. Do you feel alright? Any headaches? And...oh." He looked down and I followed his eyes were searching to find that my shirt was completely drenched in a sticky substance. How had I not noticed that? Dumbass...Mrs. Hudson just bought this too...

"Uh...don't worry about it. It'll wash out...hopefully."

"I'm so sorry. I'll pay you for a replacement."

"Please, no. Don't do that. It was an accident and—"

Sherlock cleared his throat and looked between the panicky dude and me. "You know what? I'm going to go hail a cab while you two sort this out." Before I could protest and follow, he strode away. 

"So," The dude said, turning my attention back to him, "if I can't pay you back, maybe I could take you out for coffee sometime? For recompense, of course."

"Uh," I replied smartly. "I mean...sure. Just uh...what's your name?"

"Right!" He smacked his forehead. "Jeremy. My name's Jeremy." He stuck out his hand for a shake and I took it. 

"(Y/N)."

We exchanged numbers and said we'd text the details about coffee later before parting ways. I went outside the parking tower and immediately found Sherlock standing next to a cab, tapping his foot.  He saw me and opened the door and rushing inside and I followed suit. 

"So?" He asked when the drive had started.

"So what, wet sock?" I jabbed at him, knowing full well he didn't give a crap. 

"He asked you out and you exchanged numbers." He said in a way that was mostly to himself. 

"Yeah? So?"

"Just wanted to confirm it." There was a pause. "Do you find him attractive?"

"What?"

"Do you find him attractive?" Sherlock huffed in annoyance. 

"Uh, yeah I guess? Why do you wanna know?"

"I'm foreign to the whole...dating scene and was wondering your thoughts on the matter."

"Right...cause that's what people who think sentiment is a chemical defect are curious about."

"It's true!" He crossed his arms and poured, making himself appear to be a kindergartener.

"Right...okay..." 

He ignored me the rest of the day. Like a mature adult.


	5. The War of the Counch Cushions

There's Good News and Bad News. 

Good News is that the wall is taking a break. 

Bad News is the floor is the next victim. 

I woke up to find Sherlock in his chair with a fire poker in his hand. Before I could ask why the fireplace utensil was in his grasp, he stabbed the floor. 

"I don't think Mr. Floor likes that, Benedict Holmes," I yawned and stretched as I entered the kitchen. It was tidier than usual. Which is to say that there were fewer organs and only fifty papers instead of sixty. 

"You think?" The boredom machine purred before carving something into the wood. "I think it's a work of art."

"Whatever you say, Picasso." I opened the fridge to smile at the leftover milk and brain. A ding from my phone went off. I slung the milk out and onto the counter before checking it. A text from Jeremy. 

Jeremy the Panic Dude: Just reminder of coffee at 9 :)

I smiled. I'd spent a lot of the past two days texting him since Sherlock had been acting sultry. He was a mystery to me, especially in this world. I was halfway tempted to share with him my secret, but I knew that'd  be a one way ticket to awkward, of which I visited frequently. 

I check the clock. It displayed 7:15. Plenty of time to get ready. 

Me: Thanks! Can't wait!

I didn't know if I was lying or not. Jeremy was a nice guy, but I didn't know if he was dating material. Then again, was this even a date? Am I reading him wrong? Does he really just want to make up for spilling soda all over me?

A slam from the other room brought be out of my thoughts. I looked over to see Sherlock tossing a chair into the air before it landed on the ground. I'd never seen him this riled up before. I waltzed over to the living room couch, snatched a pillow, and chucked it at his face. 

Bullseye. 

He turned at just the right moment to meet the throw pillow with a nice kiss as it smacked him in the face. (Y/N): 1. Sherlock: 0. 

He glared at me a moment before smirking. "It's on." He grabbed three pillows and threw them at me one by one. I shrieked foolishly and tried to dodge them. 

Emphasis on tried. 

A full on war broke out between the two of us. We snatched all the pillows we could, not daring to get into direct contact. However, as we got bolder we inched our ways towards each other. 

The pillows were scattered around the living room, all out of reach and in the open. We both had two pillows left and were a mere five feet away. 

We shared a stare off. I could almost hear the western showdown music playing in the background.

Then I made the first move. I fiend downward with one pillow before striking his head with he other. Sherlock fell for it and was smacked across the face. He recovered almost immediately before aiming both of the pillows at my sides. 

A quick takedown, indeed. I am winded and buckle to the ground. Sherlock smirks and creeps forward to make the kill...

His fingers dig into my sides and under my arms, making me convulse and laugh uncontrollably as he tickles me. I squeal and squirm, but the consulting detective is relentless. 

"St—stop please!" I shout. "H—Have mercy on my soul, g—good sir!"

"Never," Sherlock replies before tickling me until I can barely breath. After his attack, I lay powerless and out of breath. 

"You suck," I panted.

"I beat you!" The man insisted. "How does that make me suck?"

I reached out and booped his nose. "Just cause you beat me doesn't mean you don't suck." I sat up and looked over at the clock. It displayed 8:24.  "Shit." I scrambled to my feet. "I'm gonna be late."

Sherlock's face scrunched up. "Late for what?"

"My date." I rushed off into my room to get ready, not sparing a second glance at the consulting detective. 

I almost wish I had. 

———————————

Thankfully I was done just in time for the bell to ring from below. I raced down the stairs to open the door before Mrs. Hudson. Thankfully I didn't choose to wear heels otherwise I would've mutilated my ankle. 

Opening the door I see Jeremy as he smiled at me. "You look lovely," He said.

"Thank you." I returned the smile. 

"Shall we?" He offered his arm and I took it before we headed off onto our date.

——————————

Sherlock couldn't believe it. She actually decided to go out with that dumbo. He shouldn't feel this upset about it, but he did nonetheless. 

He peered out the window to observe (Y/N) and...what was his name again? Jerry? Or was it Jeffery? It didn't matter anyways. He was still an idiot. 

"Hey," a familiar voice said from behind Sherlock. He could automatically tell that it was John and didn't bother turning. "What're you staring out the window for?"

"Observing, you dimwitted hound," Sherlock snapped before regretting it as the words slipped out. 

John brushed it off. "Somebody is snippy today, now aren't they?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, not bothering to respond. 

"Where's (Y/N), anyway? She always puts you in a good mood." John has the ghost of a teasing snicker leave his mouth. 

Sherlock finally turned to face him. "Just what are you insinuating?"

"Nothing, nothing. Just...deducing, I suppose. Trying out your perspective."

"And what have you deduced, exactly?"

"Well, it looks to me that you just might fancy (Y/N) a little."

"What? That's preposterous! I do not fancy anyone let alone (Y/N)."

"Sure, Sherlock. And I have three left nipples."

The curly haired man look at his friend strangely. "Do you?"

"No, Sherlock! I—you know what? Never mind. If you're not going to accept it, there's no use prying."

"Very well then."

A silence blanketed itself over the room for a moment before John spoke. "Any new cases lately?"

"Just what makes you think I...'fancy' (Y/N)?"

John smirked. "Just the way you look at her, I suppose. Like she's the most precious thing alive. And you're always more well behaved around her. As well behaved as it gets, I guess."

"I do?"

"You hadn't noticed? But you've been acting moody lately, so something must've happened?"

Sherlock grumbled for a moment, pouting. "She met this...guy."

"Ah, I see. You're jealous."

"I am not jealous."

"Please. She's probably out with the lad right now, isn't she?"

"...maybe."

"God..." A beep came from John's pocket. He pulled out his phone, checked it, and sighed. "I have to go pick up Rosie from daycare. But...take care of yourself, alright?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He was a grown adult. Of course he'd take care of himself.

John left and Sherlock returned to the window, waiting for the moment you'd get home and reviewing the entire conversation he'd just had with John in his head. His phone buzzed in his pocket. He checked it and smirked.

This would be good.


	6. I Have a Russian Australian Accent

A peal of snorting laughter passed my lips uncontrollably. People on the other tables of the coffee shop glanced at Jeremy and me as we howled with delight. 

"You kissed a donkey's ass?" I gasped when I could speak coherent words again. 

"Like I said! Not my fault!" He smiled and sipped his mug. "My mate in college thought it'd be fun to set me up, right? So I said 'go for it, mate.' And what do you know, he gets me incredibly drunk off my ass--" I snorted in a very ladylike fashion at the euphemism. "--and convinces me that a very pretty lady is waiting for me up in my flat. I go up there and kiss this very pretty lady. Turns out it wasn't a lady, but rather the ass of an ass."

Laughter burst out of me at the imagery and Jeremy joined me in chuckling. "Yeah they talked about it for months until I caught my mate, his name's Patrick, by the way, stripping with a couple of the guys that were known notoriously for being a little 'cozy' with one another, if you know what I mean, in front of the faculty office after curfew."

"What? No way!"

"Yes! I wasn' the only one to see it, too. Needless to say, he kept his mouth shut about the ass for a while after that."

"Man," I slumped into my chair. "That sounds so wild. I remember when I was in college the craziest thing I ever did was--" Before I could tell of my miraculous and daring adventures of stealing milk from the lunch hall, my phone buzzed. I checked it to see that Sherlock had texted me. 

"Sorry," I apologized before looking at the text. 

World's Best Consulting Ass: Come quick, if convenient. Urgent case. Not to be missed

I sighed. "Sherlock needs me." I looked up at Jeremy whose eyebrows shot up at the mention of Sherlock. "I'm sorry. We can continue this another time if you'd like?"

Jeremy grinned so wide I thought his face might break. "That'd be great. And don't worry about leaving. My coworkers tell me Sherlock's a bit of a hassle."

I felt a tinge of annoyance at the passive aggressive jab at Sherlock but brushed it off. "Thank you. I'll text you later." We parted and I gave Sherlock a replying text:

Me: Let me guess. "If inconvenient come anyways"? I'm on my way. 

\------------------------------

The excitement and tension sparked against my skin as I entered the flat. Sherlock was practically bouncing off the walls as he paced back and forth. He noticed my presence and grinned in a way that made a small part of me want to put him in a mental hospital, but the look also made me smile back. 

"Oh, good you're here. We can leave now." He rushed past me to grab his things. "I'll explain things in the cab. 

"You know, you could've told me to meet you somewhere?" I said, following him. "That way you wouldn't have had to wait."

"I wouldn't have any time to explain thing then, now would I?" He leaped down the stairs, giving me no time to respond. I tagged along until he had hailed a cab and were heading to the scene. 

"So what's the case, Locksy?" I asked.

Sherlock frowned at the nickname choice. I personally found it fashionable. "How many cases of mine do you know of?"

"Let's see...there's a Study in Pink, the Blind--"

"Alright, so you know the one I wish to speak of, although I disapprove of John's choice of title. Anyway, where we're going the case is somewhat like that. Different people, of course, but what seems to be the same scenario."

"Why do they need you? Actually, more importantly, why do you need me?"

"To answer the first question, Lestrade said that they never took a cab, so the culprit is still a mystery and they need my help to solve a said mystery. As for the second question, John is busy with Rosie again and the second best available company was you."

I ignored the sinking feeling swarming around my gut and instead painted a smirk on my face. "Gee, you sure know how to charm a girl, dontcha?"

Sherlock stayed silent and turned toward the window, most likely pouting again. I was about to do the same until an idea popped into my head. Hiding my smile I faced toward the curly haired detective.

"Say," I said, trying my best posh Londoner accent. "I think I might be getting a cold. What do you think?"

Sherlock looked at me with a baffled and amused expression on his face. "What are you doing?"

I smiled, before making myself sound more fanciful. "Merely talking to you, good sir."

The consulting detective exhaled softly with a small smile. "Your accent is atrocious. You sound like a Russian Australian if that could even be a thing."

"Oh reeaaally?" I drawled out my accent to make it sound even more cringy.

Sherlock feined dramatic fainting. "Oh the terrible-ness of the Russian-Australian accent. What shall I do? Oh, I know." He clears his throat. "Howdy, pardner." A perfect Southern drawl came from his lips. 

"Oh my God," I said in my normal accent. "Slow down there, cowboy."

We giggled ourselves silly until we reached the scene of the crime. Then we painted our war faces on (which just so happened to be goofy smiles) and waltzed out onto the scene.


	7. The Fifth Planet Away From The Sun is Hermes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Gore, Mention of Sex, Suicide

"What took so long?" Lestrade ushered us through the scene and into a large business skyscraper. "Not busy shagging, were you?"

My face burned as I caught a glimpse of Sherlock while his ears turned a lovely shade of pink. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Lestrade's crass comment. 

"You know Lestrade, you were doing so good on the day drinking lately. What happened?" Sherlock smirked. Lestrade glared, but said nothing else as we moved along. 

Lestrade walked us up to an elevator and pushed the button. When it opened, it revealed the sight of a woman, face down on the ground with a yellow substance in a small puddle near her mouth. That wasn't the strange part, though. The woman was spray painted head to toe with a hot pink. 

"This is where she was found," Lestrade explained. "Three others before her, same cause of death as 'The Study in Pink.' One inside their house, one inside a warehouse, and the last one inside an office building. We checked the security footage and there was no sign of someone bringing her body in nor was there evidence of someone following her in. Must've been an inside job."

I looked over at Sherlock to see the gears turning in his head. He was figuring it out, quickly too, by the looks of it. A small part of me wanted to beat him to the punch...

If it was an inside job and there were three others before her then they must've been connected to this company somehow, but Lestrade didn't mention that they were. If it's like "A Study in Pink" then the victims aren't connected in any way. So it couldn't have been an inside job...

"No Taxi driver?" Sherlock asked. 

"We thought so at first with the other three, but this woman never rode in a taxi, so that's out."

"Ah," a woman's voice whined behind us. I turned to see none other than the infamous Sally Donovan. "So the Freak's here already?"

I found it very difficult to suppress my slapping urges right then. Instead I hissed, "Piss off, Donovan."

The whoremonger smirked wickedly."The Freak's got himself a pet, hm? What happened to the other guy? Needed someone dumber to get a better reaction for your parlor tricks?"

I would've tackled her right there and then if Sherlock and Lestrade hadn't held me back. A long train of curses that would've made a sailor flush with embarrassment flew out of my lips. Donovan sneered and walked away, and I eventually calmed down. 

I looked at the other two men. Sherlock wore a look of amusement and pride while Lestrade's was one of shock. 

"Why does she still work here?" I asked. "Anyways, back to pinky here."

"Uh, right." Sherlock held back a laugh. "You say it was an inside job? I disagree to a certain extent." The curly haired detective kneeled down and was inches from the flamboyantly colored corpse. 

"What do you mean by that?" The supposed DI asked.

"I mean," Sherlock shifted himself to see another angle of the body. "The killer doesn't work here, but he was here to work."

The gears and nobs in my head were ticking and full speed, trying to comprehend what the sociopath was saying. Until it finally clicked. I grinned in understanding. Lestrade caught my look and made a face. 

"What?" He jabbed. "What am I not seeing?"

Sherlock stood. "This woman worked in marketing, recently divorced, and has-had three children in which she was fighting custody over. Until now, and I'm guessing her ex-husband is at least somewhat pleased to hear of her passing."

The consulting detective sashayed out of the room and I followed him. "So a delivery man, huh?"

Sherlock smirked. "Figured it out? It's a shame you're not an officer. You'd boost these 'professionals' working speed tenfold."

I giggled at that statement as we approached the door. "Where to now, milord?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but said nothing about the nickname. He stopped walking and sat on the bench leaning up against the building. "We wait for the next mailman."

I joined him on the bench as we looked out among the people of London. It was strange to see a city that exists in my world in another. After about a week of touring my world's city and comparing it to this world's, there were only a couple minor differences. 

For example, there was always the secondary language of Mandarin that every human being seemed to be able to speak. Coca-cola was less popular than Pepsi? Justin Bieber was never hated on. And Homestuck is very mainstream, which is probably the weirdest thing of all. 

"Why are you contemplating life?" Sherlock asked. I looked at him as he scrutinized me very carefully. 

I rolled my eyes. "I'm not 'contemplating life.' I'm just comparing my world to your's."

"You mean our world is different from your's...how?"

"Well, most people aren't bilingual with both English and Mandarin. Actually, Mandarin is never used as a secondary language in any place. Coca-Cola is much more popular than Pepsi. Around a third of people believe that the Earth is flat."

"People believe that the Earth isn't round?"

"As if you're one to talk, Mr 'I-Didn't-Know-About-The-Earth-Going-Around-The-Sun.'"

"That was one time!"

"Yeah, sure. By the way, what the fifth planet away from the sun?"

"I don't know...Hermes?"

"How the hell did you come up with Hermes?"

"I thought they were all Gods!"

"Uh, yeah. Roman Gods."

We both burst into laughter out there on the city bench. A few people stared at us, but we paid them no heed. After we'd composed ourselves a little better, a UPS truck pulled up, as if on cue. Sherlock jumped into action as I followed suit. 

"Pardon me." The curly haired detective intervened the UPS driver as he was picking up a package. "But there was a man delivering here yesterday? I was wondering if you could tell me who that was." He whispered something in the driver's ear and the stranger glanced at me and smirked slightly. 

"Listen," the driver said. "I'm not supposed to give out this kind of info, but my mate Terry, the man I think you're looking for, is going through a rough patch lately. I think that might cheer 'im up."

Sherlock smiled a synthetically produced grin. "That's very thoughtful and kind of you. Can you tell us where we might Terry?"

The driver informed us of all the things we needed to know before carrying on with his business. Sherlock turned to me and smirked. "We've found the killer. Want to go investigate?"

I could hardly suppress my grin. "Is that even a question at this point?"

\----

Sherlock smashed his fist against the flat door. No answer. He rolled his eyes and stuck his hand into his pocket to bring out a couple of pins. A few swift movement inside the lock and we were in. 

Note: Ask Sherlock how to pick a lock. Maybe I'd stop getting locked out of the flat then...unlikely but still. 

The two of us creeped through the rooms. Sherlock would pause every now and then to examine something. At one point he paused and whispered. "He's home."

We snuck up the stairs and was immediately greeted by a gun shot. I froze in fear as I watched Sherlock rush the man and turned to see-

There was no man. No woman either. 

The two of us opened a door to see a man on the floor, holding a gun. Blood oozed out of the side of his head. I couldn't stop staring. I could barely notice Sherlock as he pulled out his phone and called Lestrade. 

The man in front of me had just committed suicide. 

Lestrade and his men came and discovered his bottle of the same drug used on the three victims. We didn't know how he managed to get them to take the pills, but it was enough evidence as well as the video tapes proving he was there at the time of the incident. 

The culprit was dead. Just like last time. 

"You don't think someone's copying him, do you?" I asked Sherlock as we rode the cab back to 221B. The him was already implied. 

Sherlock shook his head. "No. Terry Clives probably just thought it was a clever idea and that enough time had passed for most people to forget about the original crime. His background came in handy as well."

"I see."

Little did we know that that conclusion was completely false.


	8. Five-Year-Olds Make Great Touring Companions

"What about that man in line for the Merry-Go-Round?"

There was a pause. "Single father of...two. Mother divorced him on the second one. He dedicates his life to his children while also struggling to pay her...what was it called again, Uncle Sherlock?"

I watched wide eyed as Sherlock hit it off and taught a five-year-old Rosie deductive reasoning. John asked the stubborn sociopath to babysit his child while he went out with some woman who Sherlock claims is a closeted lesbian.

"It's called Alimony, sweetheart," Sherlock informed his niece. 

"Right," she giggled. "He has two...three...four dogs that he's trying top  P,Ofind a new home for since he can't keep them anymore. Do you think Daddy'll let me have one?"

Sherlock chuckled. "I highly doubt your father would approve of another small animal to take care of." He booped her on the nose softly making her smile.

I could hardly believe the change in demeanor from Normal Sherlock to Uncle Sherlock. He was joking and slightly compassionate and it was clear that if anyone laid a finger on that little girl, he would tear them limb from limb and name every appendage as he did so. 

The three of us were currently at an impromptu carnival in Kensington park. Something about a palace anniversary? In any case, there were a few small rides (Merry-Go-Round included), some food booths, and a makeshift temporary stage where a ventriloquist was currently performing. 

All of which was taking place in front of the Kensington Palace, which looked like an enlarged brick school building with a marble statue of a regal looking queen. The yard was perfectly manicured behind the wrought iron fence. I would've killed for a look inside. 

Inside my pocket, my phone buzzed. I pulled it out and checked it to see a text from Jeremy.

Jeremy the Panic Boyfriend?: Hey Beautiful ;) Are you free later today?

I smiled at the nickname, but felt a rock of disappointment sink in my stomach at the thought that I was occupied all day. Sherlock could take care of Rosie by himself, though, right?

I glanced over at the dynamic duo and felt a giddiness at the sight of Sherlock's genuine smile. Unable to suppress a grin, I texted Jeremy back. 

Me: Hey. I'm stuck with babysitting duties all day, so I'm not free :(

"Auntie (Y/N)!" Rosie cried from a line to the face painting. "Come help me pick for Uncle Sherlie."

I sauntered over to see the many choices. A kitten one caught my eye. I presented it to the child, careful to conceal it from Sherlock's peering eyes. "How would this one look, d'you think?"

The little girl beamed, showing all her teeth. "I think it'd look lovely." 

We informed the face painter which one Sherlock desired and she got to work, painting a bright pink kitten on Sherlock's cheek. When he saw the work of art on his perfectly sculpted cheek bone, he stuck out his bottom lip, trying to appear snobbishly attractive. 

"It does look lovely," he crooned. "You ladies have excellent taste."

Rosie and I high-fived and we walked around the carnival once more, stuffing ourselves with as much junk food as we could Sherlock only took little nibbles, as he said he didn't quite enjoy carnival food. Rubbish, I say. Who doesn't enjoy a nice paper cone of cotton candy?

One booth in particular caught my eye, though. A raffle selling tickets to be drawn for a tour of the inside of Kensington Palace for that day. It called my name. I marched on up to the booth and bought five tickets, all in my name. They said you could take your entire group, so may as well. 

After a while of more partying, we returned to the stage are as they were to announce the winners of the raffle. I crossed my fingers and prayed to any god/force of science I could think of. 

"Ladies and Gentlemen," a large announcer with silver hair announced. "Thank you all for coming to the 415th Anniversary of Kensington Palace." There was a short round of applause scattered around the room. 

"Now, to announce the winners of this year's raffle. For those who are unaware of how this works, three winners are drawn. If the same winner is drawn twice, then another is chosen instead. If you are drawn, please come up to accept the permit of approval to tour the Palace immediately." A jar of tickets was presented as the man stuck his hand inside. 

"And the first winner of this year's raffle is...the Clarkson Family!" A small applause as well as a cheer from our left broke out. A group of redheads marched up there and received some slip of paper. I bit my lip and awaited the next announcement of winners. 

"The second winner of this year's raffle is....Harriet Jones!" Another applause was awarded, but no cheer as a singular woman with greying hair and an authoritative figure went up and accepted her prize.   
"And the third and final winner of this raffle is...(Y/N) (Y/L/N)!" A grin broke out on my face as I went to accept the permit. 

Yes! I won something! Sure, it was a random drawing, but I still won!

The announcer drawled on about where the funds would be donated and then informed the permit owners could go to the front of the gates to enter the palace. 

"So we're going into the palace?" Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

"Uh, yeah," I sassed. "This is a once in a lifetime opportunity! I've never been here and not to mention this is a palace from a foreign world. Who can say that they've seen the inside of a palace from another dimension."

Sherlock sighed. "Rosie, do you want to see the inside of the Palace?"

"A Palace? Like where princesses live?" Rosie asked. 

"Close enough," Sherlock said. 

Rosie pointed her finger to the air. "Onward to the Palace!"

She marched on. "She sure is smart for her age, isn't she?"

———————

It was empty, inside the Palace, so we had the whole place to explore for ourselves. It was surprisingly simple, at first, with few decorations. It mostly resembled a museum and showed off quite a few portraits and gowns that were stunning. As we moved on, it got more and more lavish and luxurious, showing was it was like for Queen Victoria to live there. 

We travelled upstairs and saw all of the incredibly paintings. That was probably the only time Sherlock actually paid any attention to the palace. Rosie took in anything and everything with wide eyes. She kept asking where the throne room was. 

"What do you keep moping for?" I asked Sherlock as we headed down the steep stairway. "We're in the history of your country, yet you refuse to acknowledge it."

"Acknowledging the past will not change it," Sherlock said. 

"Yeah, but—" I was interrupted when I tripped over my feet and was about to tumbled down the stairs. I braced myself for terrible impact when something yanked me on my wrist and pulled my into something solid. 

That "something" was Sherlock's hand and that "something solid" was Sherlock's chest. I could hear his heart beat pound through my ears as nerves electrified my senses. I looked up at his concerned face. 

"You have to stop making a habit of falling down stairs." He smirked, and I felt my entire face flush as if it were a toilet. 

"Y-yeah." Sherlock stared into my eyes a moment, leaving me without breath. What was going on? It must be just the whiplash...or something. 

Sherlock let me go and we headed down the stairs and into the Diana Exhibition, where Rosie was already fawning over all the dresses. We spent an hour just watching her admire them as well as read the plaques attached to them.

And although I read at the plaques, I couldn't focus on what they were saying about Diana. All I could think about was the warmth that Sherlock radiated off him and the longing that ached inside my gut. 

Must be a stomach ache.


	9. The Cure For Nausea is Chaos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Gross Stuff...puke, blood, human waste

"So you're basically the cleanup guy after a crime?"

Jeremy nodded. "Yup. Messy work, but someone has to do it. May as well be someone who doesn't mind the mess."

"Wow," I said. "So any leftover...body parts. You clean those up?"

"Yeah, but I have to put them into the morgue so they can be accounted for. Most of the time I just clean blood, bodily fluids, or any other possibly infectious material." He recited it as if it was off a list he was given. 

"Huh. Wait, so what's the grossest thing you've ever had to clean up?"

"That'd probably be the time where there was this dude who shat himself, threw up, and then was gutted."

I gagged. "No way that actually happened. That's too...disgusting. How could someone gut a person who just ew, ew, ew."

Jeremy chuckled. "Yeah, that's the usual reaction."

Jeremy and I were on a date at a Grapevine Garden (which is apparently this world's equivalent of an Olive Garden). I was enjoying myself, to be honest, minus the whole shit-puke-gutting story. 

"Your food, miss," The waitress serving us set down a large plate full of amazing looking pasta. After the talk on guts covered in human excrement and bodily fluids, however, my appetite had diminished A LOT. 

Jeremy received his plate with linguini pasta with a side of shrimp, but it really looked like a plate full of shrimp with a side of noodles. He immediately dug in. I force fed myself as I listened to Jeremy ramble on about his new dog. I liked Jeremy, I really did. But right now I just wanted to leave because of nausea accumulating in my stomach. It was my own fault, really. I asked about the grotesque-ness of my boyfriend's(?) job. 

Wait, were we a couple? It was our fifth date, but we never really made it official...

Just as I was about to ask him, my phone buzzed violently. I excused myself as I pulled it out to see I'd missed six texts from Sherlock as well as a call. That was strange. Sherlock never called.

World's Best Consulting Ass: Come quick. Urgent case

World's Best Consulting Ass: Involves JM

World's Best Consulting Ass: I texted Jerry as well so you can leave

World's Best Consulting Ass: If you don't leave now, I'll just meet you there. Jerry should know where it is.

World's Best Consulting Ass: (Y/N)

World's Best Consulting Ass: Fine, I'll come and get you

I rolled my eyes.

Me: First of all, it's Jeremy. Secondly, I wasn't ignoring you. The reception here is shit. And do NOT come get me

I explained my situation to Jeremy, who promptly checked his phone to smile and say he'd gotten a text from Sherlock. We waver the waiter over to pay when a commotion started from the entrance. 

"Sir, I cannot allow you to just walk in here unannounced and sit at a table!" A man with a bushy mustache and a hard expression said. 

"Fine," a familiar baritone voice replied. "I'll be in and out. Won't order or anything. Unless you'd like your wife to know about your relationship with the wine supplier?"

Guessing that the person who caused the disruption was like guessing that the sun rose in the East. Why, oh why, did he have to come now, dear God? Couldn't you have, you know, TOLD HIM TO GO AWAY?

No? Very well then.

I apologized briefly to Jeremy, stood, and then tromped over to the argument. Neither of them had noticed me yet. I could practically feel the anger radiating off the bushy-mustached guy. Sherlock was going to get punched, if not by this dude then definitely by me. 

Sherlock looked over and smiled with no teeth. I sent a glare that hopefully sent the message that I was not currently a happy camper. The bushy mustache dude shared my expression

"I apologize for my...friend," I said to the bushy mustacheington III. "He can be a bit difficult, to say the least. I'll get him out of your hair."

I clutched onto Sherlock's arm like he was the last chocolate bar in a zombie apocalypse and dragged him out onto the street. It wasn't hard since he weighed about the equivalent of a toddler. 

"If you ever interrupt my date again, Sherlock, I swear to every deity that has ever existed that I will make you pray to each one of them for mercy." I stared straight into Sherlock's indescribably colored eyes, inches away from his face. "Got it?"

The curly haired detective gulped, nodding slightly. "Although you look slightly nauseated. Did you and Jerry discuss careers?"

I released my grasp on his arm and raised my hand, debating whether or not I should slap him or go for the groin. Instead, I scowled and folded my arms. Sherlock smirked and went to get a cab. 

"What's the case, then?" I said once we were on our way to the scene. "You mentioned JM?"

Sherlock sighed. "It's a repeat."

I paused, soaking in the information he'd just given me. "You mean--"

"Someone is repeating everything that he did. Just different."

Another pause. "So it's the pips, then? Bombs with mysteries intertwined?"

"Yes. Scotland got the bomb call this morning. Found a copy of Dante's Inferno in Mrs. Hudson's tea cupboard."

Dante's Inferno? Wasn't it Fairy Tales last time? My mind raced, searching for answers to problems that didn't exist all the way.

I rubbed my earlobe. "So pips. Bombers. Do they have the mystery for you yet?"

"Maybe. Maybe not. I'll figure it out."

I nodded, knowing that was the closest I would get to an answer. Damn Sherlock and his handsome cryptidness.

"And what about the culprit? Any idea who it could be?"

Sherlock closed his eyes, before looking right at me, a layer of stoic over cold fear. "I have no idea."

And if Sherlock didn't know, then the world must be ending.

**Author's Note:**

> This originally started on my one-shot book that's on Wattpad and eventually blossomed into this. Hope you enjoy!


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